The marriage is fake, but the passion is real.
Famous for his last name, devilish Anthony Star-Hunter is the black sheep of the Star clan. He’s an expert at using his tall, dark, and handsome charm to get women into bed—the last remnant of his declining hard-party escapades.
But the bucks are about to stop here. His grandfather’s will demands he marry to inherit his fortune. Anthony panics. Even with his bad boy allure, how the hell is he going to find a tolerable bride, like, yesterday?
The minute Sarah Pennington spots the tattooed muscles her new stepsister’s ex hides under his Italian suits, she rolls her eyes. Anthony is not for her. And with her father maybe headed to prison for a financial fiasco, she’s had enough bad male behavior. She’s responsible. She’s hard-working. She…can’t stop having naughty dreams about the sexy “celebutant.”
At a beach-side wedding, a drunken mishap throws Sarah into Anthony’s bed, and he’s intrigued. Can he convince her to give fake marriage a chance? Can she convince herself to keep her heart out of the deal?
Their slow-burn, un-love affair isn’t what either expect, but it might be what both of them need forever.
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Anthony
“Stay. We can dance again.”
Sarah grabbed my hands and pulled me closer, twisting her body to the beat. Her head fell back, and her eyes closed with a blissful smile. The graceful line of her neck trapped my gaze, leading it down to her smooth collarbone and the hint of cleavage that swelled with each breath, each laugh, and each toss of her head.
Suddenly, her fingers on mine burned. I yanked them away. Her wrap dropped to the ground. I scooped it up and handed it to her.
“We have a full day tomorrow. Some of us are golfing again. I think the bridal party is going to the spa. Then, we’re sailing to the reef. I need some sleep.”
Her pout deepened. “I’m not your type, am I? You think I’m boring.”
When I didn’t speak, she pushed closer with an inquisitive desperation.
“Am I that boring?”
I swallowed and laughed, but her question rattled me. “No. You’re not boring, just responsible. Usually.”
Swimming beneath the responsibility was a woman longing to be free. I could smell it on her, along with her citrusy shampoo and hints of vanilla.
“Yes. I am. Someone has to be. I’m the someone.” Her eyes slipped shut. “My father might go to prison.”
The revelation shocked me. I’d heard rumors about Edward Pennington’s business partner, but I thought they’d gone their separate ways.
Sarah’s eyes flew open, and her hands covered her mouth. “Don’t tell Catie. She doesn’t know. Because what the hell is she going to do? Nope. He drops that shit on me so I can ‘help.’”
She made finger quotes with her hands.
“Because I’m helpful and re-spons-i-ble.”
Tears pooled in her eyes as Sarah punched me in the sternum, and my heart jumped.
“Lawyers,” she wailed. Then, she stepped away like I was a hot stove she hadn’t meant to touch. “I should go find Steve. We were dancing.”
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and turned her away from the dance floor.
“No Steve. How about we both turn in?”
She was drunker than I’d thought and, if she was confessing her family business, not in control of herself. The condition wasn’t as fascinating in reality as it had been in theory.
I would walk her back to the house and deposit her in her room to sleep it off and, hopefully, forget this conversation.
“You and me?” she asked, stumbling over a small dip in the lawn. “Whoopsie!”
I caught her arm. “Easy.”
“I almost f-fell.”
I smiled. “I know.”
Her voice dipped to a hush. “Seriously. You and me?”
“What?” I asked.
She gazed up, her soft brown eyes pools of questions and warmth. “Turning in together?”
“I just meant—”
Her wicked smile cut me off. “Like my dreams. I’ve had dreams about you. I had one last night. I can’t stop. Not since we met.”
I’d thought of her too. From her first dismissive sneer, I wanted to make her want me in spite of herself. It was a third-grade urge to pull her pigtails and make her pay attention. She didn’t like me. I didn’t care—or maybe I even loved it. Her face flushed with irritation or desire—both gave me a charge.
What did she dream about doing to me? Could it possibly match the things I wanted to do to her right now?
But I wouldn’t. She was wasted.
Sarah’s arms wound around my waist. The soft cushion of her breasts pressed to my side, and a hot urge swept over me. My cheeks burned. My pulse thundered. My dick was so hard I glanced down to make sure it hadn’t poked a hole through my zipper.
“You and me,” I said, “isn’t the worst idea.”
Another time. When she was sober.
Her smile stretched, then faded, her tongue jutted out, rejecting the notion.
“Pfft. It’s a terrible idea, but I dream about you anyway.”
She clutched me, and my heart sank. Of course, I was a terrible idea for her. But her for me?
The thought made me ache.
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Author Bio:
Kris Jayne is a devoted writer, reader, and traveler, crafting addictive contemporary romance novels with heat and heart. She spends her days blissfully sweating out the writing process in the Dallas area with her dogs, Otis the Shih Tzu, Rocco the Terrier, and Red the Foxy Mutt.
Her passion for writing is only matched by her passion for the adventures of travel. In 2008, she let a friend talk her into sleeping outside for the first time in her life when she climbed Mount Kilimanjaro.
P.S. If you’re buying her a gift, she has a penchant for single-malt Scotch and scarves.
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